Star Wars: Battles of the Old Republic
by pouncepounce
Summary: Over 1000 years before the battle of Yavin, the conflict between the Jedi and Sith has engulfed the galaxy. The war is gruesome, but the heroism and sacrifice of the Republic soldiers and the Jedi have pushed the Sith Alliance to the brink of destruction. Taking advantage of their Overlord's weakness, leaders of several Sith occupied worlds attempt to negotiate with the Republic...
1. Prologue

Frosty winds blew over the towers with enough force to wobble her lekku. The metal handles of the balcony were too cold to rest her hand on, and the mist was so heavy that she couldn't see anything further than a hundred meters or so into the distance. Mygeeto was not a Twi'lek friendly planet, that much was certain.

"Freya!" A voice shouted from behind her over the howling winds and she turned.

It was Alan Moonrider, a human, clad in dark brown Jedi robes and one of the most well reputed of the Order for his prowess in combat.

"Master?" she replied.

"What are you doing out here?" Alan rubbed his arms vigorously, his eyes squinted.

Freya was halfway frozen herself, but the cold was good for at least one thing; masking her nervous chills. She scrambled for a halfway proper explanation. "I- well, you see. I was just making sure that the compound was secure."

Her master remained silent, studying her intently.

 _What a poor excuse. Nice one, Freya._ She could not bring herself to look at her master in the eyes. _You're fifteen now. You're not a scared little youngling anymore._

"Fear is a natural part of life. Necessary, even." Alan walked toward her, seeking his Padawan's eyes, placing a hand on her shoulder so gently that it almost made Freya ashamed of herself. But it brought her comfort, and it brought her strength. "But do not be controlled by it. Remember what you have learned at the Order. Fear is the path to darkness."

Freya mustered her courage, raising her head to face Alan. The warmth of his hand, his presence through the Force and his compassion, they solidified her resolve. "'All is as the Force wills it. There is nothing to fear.'" she recited.

This earned her a proud smile from her new master. "Exactly, exactly. Now, come down to the hangar bay with me. Our _guests_ are about to arrive." Alan relinquished his touch and headed back inside with his Padawan.

"I'm still not sure if this is a good idea, master. Sith ambassadors? I mean, what if they betray us? If they attack us?"

"Sith _defectors,_ " Alan corrected, "Besides, they're politicians, not warriors. They aren't even Force sensitive, you know that." They were in the elevator now, descending to the docking bay. "And even if things go bad, we'll be there to stop them, will we not?"

"Of course."

Alan didn't need to use the Force to sense his apprentice's discomfort. "It is a little irregular, I admit, but us Jedi Knights and Padawans must trust in the wisdom of the Council. They are most in tune with the will of the Force, and that makes it our duty to trust in their decisions."

The doors opened to a large, open hangar bay jutting out of the side of the tower. The area was littered with Republic fighters, their pilots and maintenance crew, and a dozen or so Jedi. Before Freya could express just how little her doubts of the Council's decisions had been assuaged, one of their robed brothers called out to her master from across the bay.

"Alan! Over here!" The bald and dark skinned human was sitting cross legged on a pile of crates, a wide grin plastered across his face. "Who's the youngling?" he asked as the pair neared. Freya suppressed a wince.

"Easy, Ragh," Alan said quickly, as if taming a crazed tauntaun, "This is Freya Asar, my new _Padawan_." He emphasized her rank, stealing a glance at his young, clearly nerve racked and _slightly_ annoyed apprentice.

The Jedi hopped down from the crate, sticking out a friendly hand to Freya. "Ragh Sors, Jedi Knight." The Padawan took his hand, reluctantly, and was met with a hearty shake and an equally hearty laugh. "Welcome to the Order proper."

"Thank you, Master Sors," Freya replied with the appended title as was customary, even if the man was only a Knight.

"Please, call me Ragh."

The three of them chatted, the two Knights as old friends did, the Padawan a little more reservedly, as they patiently waited for the Sith defectors to arrive. Apparently Ragh was more in the loop than Freya or her master. According to him, the defectors were representatives of the worlds that had been ravaged under the rule of the Sith Order. Those of the dark Order and their allies held little regard for the well being of the weak.

It was not long until the awaited announcement sounded throughout the bay. _"Incoming transport to hangar bay D-24_ , _Zone 3. D-24, Zone 3. Please clear the area."_ Several moments and a civilian yacht landed gracefully at the designated zone.

From where she was standing, Freya was able to get a good look at the disembarking party. At the front of the group was a fellow Padawan, who she did not know personally but recognized by the young man's braid. Behind him was a group comprised of a Gungan, a Rodian and a Neimoidian. At one glance, she could tell that none of the three were _actual_ Sith, which meant that Ragh had been correct. These _defectors_ were leaders who wanted to leave the rule of the Sith Order, probably with armed support from the Republic. No doubt they were keen to negotiate terms with a more reasonable government.

At the tail end of the pack was a Zabrak Jedi Master who she could actually identify. "Oh look, it's Master Arule."

"Yep," Ragh said with obvious admiration, "Keev Arule. Fought alongside him once, back on Hoth. Like lightning, faster than you, believe it or not, Alan."

"Oh, I believe you." Alan barely got his words out as sirens blared overhead, and the bay was filled with red emergency lights. "I also believe that there may be trouble on the way, my friend."

"You don't say," Ragh muttered as he took off for the Sith defectors.

Alan followed suit. "Come along, Padawan." Freya was already hot on his heels. "Master Arule!" he shouted over the sirens. All of the Jedi spread across the bay were now converging on the Master for guidance.

A loud explosion rang across the bay and the floor beneath them shook violently, almost knocking Freya off her feet. Her hand instinctively reached for her lightsaber, the familiar texture of the hilt somewhat subduing her growing restlessness.

That tiny scrap of calm she had managed to scrounge up she lost grasp of as she felt another explosion, but this time a Sith transport came almost crashing down into the hangar. And then she sensed _it._ A presence in the Force, so profoundly dark, it almost swallowed her whole. The Jedi around her ignited their lightsabers at once, green, blue and yellow mixing with the red lights above. The transport door opened with a hiss.

It was Magna. _Darth_ Magna, in the flesh. He was there, right across the bay, less than fifty meters separating her and the Overlord of the Sith Order.

"Move! You must go, Freya!" Alan shouted, pushing his Padawan toward the Sith defectors, "You must take them to safety. Go to the nearest bay and ensure they arrive at Utapau!"

"Master!"

Alan tore his gaze away from the Sith and looked into the worried eyes of his apprentice. "The Force is strong in you. You are ready, my Padawan." He then returned his eyes to the slowly approaching enemy. The dark lord was masked and clad in black heavy armor, but moved with ease as if they were a set of robes.

"But-"

"Go! Now!" Alan and the other Jedi could only protect the defectors for so long with their Force Shields.

Freya turned to the terrified politicians, hardening her resolve. "Follow me!"

And the Padawan was off.

* * *

Alan inhaled as slowly as he could manage. Magna ignited his lightsaber, and so did his apprentice behind him. _Darth Bane_.

He exhaled and let the Force flow through him. He was a mere custodian of his body after all, it really belonged to the Force, and he relinquished himself to the light. The Jedi, led by Master Arule, charged toward the two Sith Lords.

Magna leaped forward, landing in the midst of the Jedi and breaking their spearhead formation, but the sound of clashing blades never came. Only those of cauterization. The Dark Lord was so powerful, taking on a dozen or so Jedi was a mere triviality. Magna dodged and weaved through the strikes of his enemies rather than wasting his energy parrying their slow blades. The Overlord was a shadow, blurring in and out of vision too fast for any of them, and every time he reappeared, another one of them fell.

Alan's opponent was Bane, however, and their blades danced in a battle of feints. The Sith Apprentice was powerful in his own right, with his elegant but deadly Makashi mastery, seemingly four steps ahead of each attack Alan launched. A hot fire erupted from their blades as they clashed together. From the corner of his eye, he saw Magna swipe a wide red arc. Ragh bellowed in pain. Alan lost his focus.

* * *

One by one, Freya could feel the Jedi down in D-24 falling to the Sith. She was on bay D-31 now, and was forcing herself to press onward, guiding the defectors toward the nearest transport. Then it came. Pain, like a wound inflicted upon her soul through the Force, the severance of a connection. It was just as she had feared. Her master was dead.

"Master Jedi." It was the Neimoidian defector, his voice drenched in terror. "We must go, before the Sith Lords come after us."

She had frozen at the foot of the transport, unable to move. Clutching at her chest, Freya nodded. _You have to be strong. Everything is as the Force wills it._

They boarded the transport, Freya jumping into the pilot's seat, relying upon the Force to help her recall the controls of the specific ship model. It was a spice freighter, something she was unused to flying. It all occurred to her with relative ease, and within a few seconds they had taken off and were speeding off into the clouded sky.

She looked down below as they ascended into and beyond the atmosphere. The compound and the surrounding stations were in flames, red, blue, green and yellow blending together in the distance. She returned her focus to the ship controls and punched in the coordinates for the hyperdrive.

And then she felt short of breath.

 _Weird. A life support failure?_ _That could be a problem._ She calmly checked the status terminals. All systems were green.

"Hey, back there. Anyone else-"

It was no longer just hard to breath. She was choking. Sounds of gagging filled the cockpit as Freya and the defectors gasped for air. Fading into unconsciousness, the Padawan pushed up the large silver handle with her last ounce of strength.

* * *

Bane watched on as his master remained rooted in place, his arm outstretched toward where the freighter had just been before slipping into hyperspace. Magna looked furious. _Had the traitors escaped?_

"No," the Sith Overlord clarified, "The traitors are dead. It is that youngling, the Padawan. Her connection to the Force is immense. Her potential, troublesome."

* * *

 **Notes: This fic will be about the Old Republic, but based only on what we know as the current Disney canon. However, in terms of lore, I will use some concepts that are now considered to be a part of Legends (like Force Shield). Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 1

Rylat moved to his chest piece after finally getting rid of a particularly nasty blood stain off the head armor. _I bet that bastard wasn't expecting a headbutt_. _Knocked him out cold._ The cloth was getting a little dry, so he dipped it again in the tub of cleaning oil sitting on the bench beside him. The tan colored breastplate was mostly clean already. Just a little dirt, no red splatters. Instant cauterization meant very little blood was shed on battlefields with high energy weapons. Physical blood, anyways; lives were still lost. Many lives. _Thousands. Millions_.

The war was brutal, for both sides. On one side was the Sith Order and their allies, the Mandalorians and the Zygerrian Empire, ruling with darkness over the weak. On the other side was the Jedi Order, the so called defenders of peace, and the Galactic Republic, a so called democratic government. Of course, at the end of the day, the Jedi _were_ peacekeepers, and the Republic _was_ indeed democratic, but such a devastating war had a way of corrupting even the best of the galaxy, in both domains.

"Still cleaning that armor of yours, I see." It was Miravel Hex, a glint of mirth in her eyes, "Are you putting it up for sale or something? It better be squeaky clean if you want to get the best price for it?"

It was just the two of them in the Jedi armory.

"Almost done." Rylat continued cleaning his chest piece, getting rid of every last bit of dirt he could find, searching deep into every little crevice, each one familiar to the touch. He looked up, eyeing the woman's black robes, tattered and filled with spots of brown dirt and muck. "Going for the vintage look, are we? It suits you well, Miri."

Miravel laughed dryly, setting herself down next to her friend. They shared a moment of silence, filled only by the squeaking of Rylat's vigorous scrubbing and their comrades' chatter coming from the common room. Years and years of combat experience afforded him the ability to pay attention to multiple parts of his surroundings at once. In this instance, he was making sure that his armor was up to standard, and that his friend was in a right state. He observed.

 _Her posture, slouched, elbows resting on knees. Dark bags under her eyes, hiding behind locks of bright red hair. Her knuckles, a deep purple from hard striking. On the edge of her right leather boot, a splatter of dark maroon, where she had stomped an enemy to death, perhaps._

Despite the convincing smile that she wore, Miravel was in bad shape, and Rylat did not blame her. The war was wearing even him down, and as much as he disliked to admit it, that was saying something. Rylat slowed his scrubbing, wanting to speak, to offer Miravel his support, but not knowing what to say, he kept his mouth shut.

Miravel noticed, and her friend's gesture was comfort enough. She spoke freely. "When will this end? How many more lives must be lost, how many must we take?" She was no longer smiling. Rylat continued to scrub in silence. "Every death, friend or foe, I feel through the Force. The pain, it's unbearable. Do you know how many died, just in that battle? Three and a half thousand, on each side."

Rylat remained mute, staring down into his armor.

"Of course you already knew." Miravel placed a careful hand on her friend's lap. "I'm so sorry."

Rylat's communicator rang loudly, the small holographic display indicating that it was from the Council. He let it ring for a while, unsure if he wanted to answer the call as he peered into the eyes of his lifelong friend. They weren't moist, of course; she was a hardened Jedi Master, the best of the best, like him.

"You should take it." Miravel retracted her hand.

"Yes, I should." And indeed, he did.

A blue holo of Jedi Councilors Ninba, Gurtan and Fasimo appeared above the communicator. Fasimo, the most senior, light skinned human, was the one to speak. " _Master Ordo, Master Hex. Your success in Geonosis is most excellent news_. _The Sith forces have lost valuable ground."_

"Thank you, Councilor." Rylat replied. Miravel gave nothing but a curt nod.

 _"The tides are turning now, and the Council senses that the war is nearing an end at last."_

Miravel betrayed nothing to her superiors, but Rylat could tell that this news had brought immeasurable joy to his companion.

"I feel it too. The darkness is slowly being extinguished throughout the galaxy. They are starting to become desperate."

 _"Yes. Cornered, we sense that the Sith will launch several pinpoint attacks on key systems to regain control. Utapau is one of these suspected targets, and it is there that the both of you must next defend._ "

"Then we will be there as soon as time allows," Rylat declared.

 _"Indeed, and one more thing. You have been assigned a Padawan apprentice, Master Ordo._ "

"An apprentice?" Miravel blurted, looking strangely perky, cheerier than before.

 _"Yes._ " Rylat could swear that Fasimo sounded a little amused. _"Councilor Ninba senses that it is the will of the Force._ " The Mon Calamari in question nodded from behind as confirmation.

Rylat could hardly believe what he was hearing. He was a front liner, someone who led troops into the most gruesome of battles, hardly a fitting environment for a Padawan. Most younglings nowadays were paired off with masters who were responsible for scouting and escort missions, not bloodbaths. "With all due respect, Councilor Ninba, are you certain?"

Ninba gave no verbal reply. She merely repeated her nod.

"Well, it's settled then, isn't it?" Miravel announced, her laughter barely kept in check.

 _"Indeed, it is. I have sent you her records. Masters, may the Force be with you."_ Councilors were busy people, and that marked the end of the conversation.

The two of them returned the greeting before hanging up.

Rylat glanced at Miravel, who was giggling like a youngling who'd eaten too much candy. "I'm glad you're enjoying this," he said sarcastically, but he meant it too in a way.

"Oh, I am. You? With a Padawan? Ridiculous."

"Frankly, I agree. Would this even be right for the child?" He opened the Padawan's files on his communicator's holo display. "Freya Asar," he read aloud, "Twi'lek. Female. Born as a slave under the Zygerrian Empire. Bought by a human family at the age of two, who freed her and allowed the Jedi to take her into the order. Fifteen years of age. Became a Padawan last month. Past masters…"

Miravel's giddiness vanished upon reading where her friend had trailed off.

 _Alan Moonrider (deceased)_

Another friend, dead. So much good, lost forever into the unrecognizable conglomeration that was the cosmic Force.

"We must let him go, Miri. Grief is an attachment in itself."

"I know, but let me have this moment. That is all I ask for. Just this moment." Her fists were clenched tightly, bruised knuckles going white. She was afforded no such solace.

Commander Jax Cree, clad in his orange and white Republic Army armor, marched into the room, and Miravel straightened immediately. Cree saluted crisply. "Generals. Will the next deployment be immediate, or will there be some hours of rest afforded?" The commander was young for an Army officer, barely 23. Wartime meritocracy allowed talented soldiers to climb the ladder quickly.

"Our next destination is the Utapau system, and we must leave immediately, I am afraid. Prepare the ships for transport," Rylat ordered.

"Understood, sir." With another salute, the commander left as quickly as he had entered.

Silence fell upon the two Jedi once more, until Rylat eventually broke it, not out of discomfort but out of duty. "We should organize transport for the fallen."

They left the armory together, through the common room, where Jedi and Republic soldiers alike were huddled together in groups. Commander Cree was in the middle of grabbing his subordinates' attention. "Alright! Listen up! Everyone shut up and listen!" He shouted to his soldiers and not the Jedi, of course. He didn't have to shout to get the attention of those in the Order, and they outranked him anyways.

Rylat and Miravel continued out into the open balcony overlooking the grand desert plain where the main battle had taken place. It was a sea of corpses, cleaner droids picking up and dumping them into the large compartments that they dragged around. Each was handling either exclusively Republic or Sith forces; those that were handling the Sith corpses eventually dumped them into the incinerator once their 'sacks' were full. The bodies of those that had fallen fighting for the Republic were sorted out into neat rows in a freezing preservation unit, where another set of droids went about identifying each one. Facial recognition was sufficient for some cases, of course, but many required other methods, such as DNA sampling and profiling. Heads could be completely mangled or missing entirely.

Rylat heard Jax finish giving out instructions to the troops, and the common room behind them was now bustling with the sound of purposeful footsteps and organized communication under the commander's precise orchestration. Every soldier moved with a sense of duty and drive, each one knew what they had to do and why.

The pair jumped off the balcony, allowing the Force to gently float them down to the surface, two dozen stories below, and there they were in the midst of pain and suffering, or at least what remained of it. In front of them, a droid of the same model as those that were collecting the corpses, buzzed past them, crudely snatching up the lightsabers of their fallen brothers and sisters. The Kyber crystals of both Jedi and Sith had to be treated with proper care, whether they were to be repurposed or disposed. Letting lightsabers fall into the pool of black market goods was not only a sin in terms of practicality, but it was also a taint upon the legacy of its original wielder. Show respect for the weapons of the fallen; that was the most that could be done for the Jedi that had passed on to become one with the Force. A Jedi's lightsaber was their life, after all.

"General Ordo!" The logistics specialist, Ash Wilmuth, came running toward them, her dark brown hair tied up in a bun so tight that it was a little uncomfortable just to look at. "Would you like to organize the shipping details, sir?"

"Yes, I would. Order military freighters with enough capacity for … let's see, four thousand. Wouldn't want to run out of space, would we?" Rylat asked rhetorically in an attempt to distance himself from the sheer magnitude of the number, and what that number symbolized. _Four thousand._ He looked across the battlefield, filled with the bodies of the men and women that had perished under his command. _Four thousand._

"And the seal of approval?"

"Oh, of course. Here." Rylat digitally transferred his Republic General's Seal of Official Approval to the specialist, who then attached it to the request form. That was it, his approval to send home the boats full of grief and sorrow. He turned to his friend, whose solemn expression did nothing to raise his spirits. It was just another system, tainted by war and death. "I've had enough of this place. We're leaving."

* * *

The trip to Utapau was uneventful. Rylat spent his time eating, reading, meditating and sleeping, all after a good shower, of course. It was the first course of action, to rid himself of the stench of battle. The system itself was quite eventful, it seemed. Even from several kilometers above, Rylat could spot the bustle of activity below with his naked eye. As they approached the landing pad, he saw everything with greater clarity. Fifty or so Jedi were already there, many of them he recognized as fellow Masters, along with several thousand Republic Army troops. Combined with the comfortably sized Republic naval force they had passed by on the way to the planet's surface, Utapau's defenses seemed to already be in good order.

"This special Padawan of yours. Where could she be?" Miravel pondered aloud, a little too loud to be unintentional.

"Would _you_ like to take the apprentice on instead, my friend, if you are so interested? I would be glad to hand over the honor to such a respected contemporary."

"Fat chance, Ordo. May the Force be with you." With that, the redhead spun on her heels and departed toward the closest cargo bay, probably to check on the dropship retrofits.

 _Really, though. Where is this Padawan?_ He rechecked the holo of her face. _Dark purple, with a small scar on her chin, perhaps from a childhood injury, and thick head-tails that came down to her mid torso._ Below the holo was the Padawan's name and her communications address. He punched it into his communicator and dialed. The only answer came in the form of a chirping noise right behind him.

"Master Ordo?"

He spun around too quickly and landed clumsily, regaining his balance just in time so as to not fall flat on his face. _It was her!_ "Oh, Padawan Asar?" he managed, doing his best to appear in control. The young Twi'lek simply nodded.

Moments passed with neither of them uttering a single word.

"May I call you Freya, then?"

"Of course."

Silence beset itself between the two of them once more, the Padawan looking around at her surroundings shyly.

"I am sorry about your former master. Alan was a good friend, as he was to many others in the Order."

Freya's eyes dropped toward the ground, but just as soon as they had, they were back to being directed at her new master. It was then, when their eyes finally met, that Rylat established a connection to his Padawan through the Force. Her presence was overwhelming, so much so that it made him wonder how he had not detected her earlier. As strong and powerful as it was, being a young Padawan, her Force signature was still incredibly malleable and vague. As she continued on her journey through life and the Force, her signature would slowly become more solid and immovable, just as it had in him and all other Jedi. It was the duty of a Jedi to mold his apprentice and guide them toward the light, and so it would also be for Rylat himself.

His young apprentice looked fierce, even dangerous. He felt her suffering, her pain, the wounds that had been inflicted upon her since birth. With this realization came doubt, not of the Padawan's capabilities, but of those of his own. _Was this really what the Force willed? Surely there were other, more fitting masters out there in the Order. Those that could offer her the stable guidance she required._

"So, what am I to do?" the pupil inquired curiously.

Lost for words, Rylat was saved by Jax Cree, who interrupted the exchange between master and apprentice. "General Ordo. We have just received word of hidden Sith forces on the other side of the planet. They seem to be forming a makeshift base there, sir."

"How large of a force are we talking?"

"A handful, no more than a half dozen troopers."

"I see, a scouting party, then. We must strike them down quickly before they are able to relay any useful intelligence."

"We are going on the offensive, sir?"

"Of course, commander. Six or so of them should not be too much to handle for a squadron of ours, wouldn't you say?"

"Understood. And the squad members for this mission, sir?" The young man glanced toward the shy looking Twi'lek girl.

Rylat hastily introduced the two to each other, eager for a chance to let the Padawan open up to her comrades. A feeling of belonging to a group and a sense of duty to its people played a vital part in war.

"A Padawan. That makes us equals."

"Indeed, it does, at least in terms of rank, but I fear that I am still far too inexperienced to be your true equal at this point."

The three of them, Rylat walking slightly ahead, started on their way toward the transport ship that was to take them to where the Sith Warriors were apparently hiding. Jedi Generals meditated in circular chambers, deep in the lower levels, while the Republic soldiers were busy carrying around and maintaining large chunks of war machinery.

"Perhaps, but you are connected to the Force, and it can offer you insights and tactical advantages in a way that the rest of us can only dream of. There is a reason why Jedi Padawans start in a position of command, rather than as an enlist."

"Do you wish you were a Jedi, then?" Freya asked hypothetically, sensing a tint of envy in the commander's thoughts.

"Oh no. No way," Jax replied quickly, as if she had asked him if he wanted to take a dip in a Sarlacc pit. "I admire Jedi, but I wouldn't like to be one. Living as a Jedi is not easy. The self must be sacrificed for the sake of the whole, something much easier said than done. And the responsibility too." A moment's hesitation, as he wondered if it was appropriate to ask such a question so soon. "Isn't it difficult, knowing that each of your actions and decisions will probably have a greater effect on the galaxy than those of us that are not Force sensitive?"

Freya pondered for a moment. "I suppose so, but my supposedly _greater effect_ on the galaxy also allows me to help those in need."

"Sure, but those are two conflicting ideas, are they not? You are given ability beyond natural explanation to save the lives of others, but the more people you save, the more attachments you form. As a Jedi's powers grow, attachments are created, which must then in turn be destroyed, according to your Code. This cycle of connections and severances naturally leads to a great anxiety within the Jedi, making them susceptible to corruption."


	3. Chapter 2

Bane watched on as his master gorged on the feast set out across the table in front of them, the Overlord's helmetless face violently corrupted by the Force. Plate upon plate of fish and cattle, expertly prepared by the ship's head chef, all in an attempt to satiate the seemingly insatiable. He played a game of mental pazaak, just as always, unwilling to let his thoughts betray him in any way in front of Magna. They were in the Overlord's private dining hall, the sounds of his eating reflecting off of the dull metal walls. And then an abrupt silence.

"Darth Moras," Magna spat.

"She has returned from Kashyyyk?"

The ceiling plates trembled and burst, a robed figure dropping down from the opening. Magna commanded his lightsaber to life through the Force, igniting it just in time to block the incoming strike, the two blades clashing and filling the room with red. Bane drew his blade too, more to defend himself rather than his master, as five others dropped down to join the first, who was no longer cloaked.

"Moras! You have made a terrible mistake!" Bane warned his contemporary, a fellow apprentice of the Overlord. He could feel the rage being channeled into her blade, the other five readying their own, looking for an opportunity to strike.

"You overestimate yourself, dear apprentice." Magna was seething. "Do not let your arrogance blind you. Surrender now, and I will end you swiftly."

Fear flashed over the younger Sith's eyes. "If you are not struck down, my lord, you will send us all to our deaths. Under your rule, our Order is doomed to only one fate. Destruction, returned to ashes like the tombs on Moriband." Moras turned to Bane. "Join me, old friend, and together we may defeat this brute and reclaim the glory of the Sith."

Moras was right, of course. Magna's obsession with wiping out the Jedi was losing them the war. Even if the so called holy warriors were to be wiped out, they still had the Republic forces to worry about. The constant infighting wasn't helping either. Moras and he made a powerful team, they always had, but it was all too late now. The Order was beyond saving. Their Sith Alliance had lost too much ground and the Republic had claimed too many victories. They wouldn't lose immediately, or even in several years. The war could stretch on for decades, but it would all still end the same. Magna would bring about their demise eventually.

"The darkness will guide us, Bane. I will command it to." Magna tightened his grip around the hilt of his lightsaber, his black durasteel gauntlet grinding against the hilt.

"Enough!" Another of the cloaked figures leapt into the fray, forcing Magna to disengage from Moras and quickly parry the newcomers' flying slash. The others followed suit, rushing toward the Overlord in an attempt to overwhelm him.

Just as Bane had seen many times before, his master became a blur, a shadow, and every time still it turned his blood cold. The sheer ferocity, the biological manifestation of the Dark Side, Magna weaved himself between each strike, every slash and stab hitting nothing but air. One by one, Moras' allies fell, the absence of their legs rendering them unable to stand or walk and leaving them squirming on the ground, until it was only the former apprentice herself who remained standing. She held her ground, tilting her lightsaber in a purely defensive Soresu stance, all thoughts of usurping thrown out the air lock.

"Good. Now, Moras, draw upon the darkness, wield its power in your time of desperation. You are trapped now, cornered. Your only true ally is the Force." Magna deactivated his blade, returning the hilt to hang off of his belt. "And you, Bane. Your lack of faith in the Dark Side must be corrected. It seems you have failed to learn the power that the Force can grant you."

Bane knew where this was going. He raised his blade and launched himself toward Moras, who parried the blow and landed a kick to his stomach. He used the Force to backflip midair, landing safely on his feet several meters away.

"Good! Good!" Magna's cracked face contorted into an ugly smile. "Fight, fight until only one of you is left standing alive. Fight until you have been cleansed of your impurities, until your passion for the Force has been restored." The Overlord stomped over the squirming bodies of the Sith who had fallen during their failed coup and returned to his seat at the end of the hall length table, his meal still neatly laid out in front of him.

This time it was Moras who initiated the exchange of blows, rushing toward her opponent with the Force, leaving him only barely enough time to bring his blade to hers, preventing it from removing his head. They were close now, each swing of their blade missing their mark only by a hair's width, the heat of the energy singing them all over. Their mastery over Makashi was on full display, every movement elegant but deadly.

Bane dodged and weaved whenever he could afford to do so rather than parry, allowing him to deliver attacks of his own, but Moras was too fast, too disciplined. She had always been the one with the superior blade work, after all. He was being worn out, and sensing this, Moras gradually shifted more of her attention toward attack rather than defense.

Within moments of detecting her opponent's weakness, Moras had quickly switched to relying on her Ataru form. She was now a storm cloud of strikes, less elegant but with double the ferocity, pushing Bane to the very edge of defeat until he pulled himself away from her through the Force. He was panting, exhausted, but she knew not to underestimate her opponent. Bane could be slippery. She saw him twitch his finger, lifting the platefuls of food lain all across the dining tables on either side of them, but she overpowered him through the Force, making it all crash down onto the floor between them in a sloppy mess. His defense was lowered, his stance fragile.

Moras leapt across her dismembered, writhing allies and into her adversary's space, and once more they exchanged a flurry of blows and parries. Bane was on the brink now, she could feel it. His blows were weaker, his movements were slowing, and Force exhaustion was setting upon him.

Resorting to his knowledge of Moras' fighting technique, Bane made his every move slower but more efficient, transferring some of the work load from body to mind with the aid of the Force. Slashes and blocks turned into a whirlwind of feints, their blades not meeting once as they looked for an opening in each other's defenses. An ignorant bystander may have thought them to be fools, flourishing their blades toward one another in a red fueled dance; reality was far more deadly. One false move would mean the end for either of them.

Moras felt Bane reach out through the Force, to what she knew not. She felt something slide under her left boot. _Squishy_. A forward tug on the same boot. _Weak_. She shifted some of her weight on to the sluggish Force pull, but there was something wrong. _Slippery_. Before she could react, her foot had slid an inch too far, and that was all the opening her opponent needed.

Bane smoothly dragged through his feint into a swipe across Moras' foot, slicing her toes off clean. She yelped in pain. Her defenses had been cracked wide open, that singular fracture had been enough. Her blade lowered as Bane brought up his own, and in one swift motion, he swung it in a wide, elegant arc, swiping Moras across the neck. Her tight, expressionless head tumbled across the mess beneath her, and her body soon followed as it fell on its back, feet pointed toward Bane, the underside of the left sole covered in wet bluefruit skin.

Bane retracted his blade, his sense of ego lost amidst the darkness.

"My apprentice." Magna's commanding voice broke the younger Sith out of his trance. "You have slain Moras, but your faith in the Dark Side is incomplete."

Bane turned to his master. "Forgive me, my lord. Our losses in the war have made it difficult."

"You still have much to learn. The Force is greater than this petty conflict, than the Sith. Victory in this war is a triviality. Our Order has lost sight of the truest power, the eternal. The primary objective is to wipe out the custodians of the light, so that the galaxy may be enveloped by the Great Darkness once more. You will journey to Moriband, and meditate. Return to me when I call upon you." Magna looked to the dismembered traitors, still barely alive. The Overlord waved his hand, and then they were dead.


End file.
